Read Online Birmingham Friends by Annie Murray - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Annie Murray
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going to handle the start of surgery. I have some urgent calls to make. Won’t be too long.’
‘Oh, let me come. Please let me!’ It seemed very important that day that I see everything.
He had no time to spare for discussion. ‘Come on then, quickly.’ He was already going out of the door. ‘None of them is too far. It’ll be easier to walk.’
It was a humid day, warm and cloudy, threatening storms. We hurried along the crowded pavement of Birch Street past rows of shops, their blinds slanting out over the pavement. Everything seemed colourful, absorbing. Each shop gave off its own special smell: the warm, fleshy smell of sides of meat padded with yellowed fat, fresh bread and burnt currants, the tangy sweetness of strawberries and the bitter smells of metal and rubber from the hardware shop. Mixed with this was the ripe whiff of horse manure from the road.
I followed Daddy into another side street, hurrying to keep up with him, he striding and I trotting.
‘Here we are.’ He knocked on the door of a house. ‘You’d best stay outside, I think. Old Mr Fenton has his bed downstairs now.’
The house was run-down and filthy, the windows so thick with grime that they must have let in very little light. There were signs that the paint on the bleached window frames must once have been blue.
A woman with a large, sagging face and a wart sprouting whiskers on her left cheekbone appeared at the door. The rest of her hair was wrapped in a washed-out brown scarf. As the door swung open a waft of stale air hit us, stinking of sweat and urine. I shrank back.
‘Oh, it’s you, doctor,’ the woman said lifelessly. ‘He’s bad today.’ She talked of a turn in the night, said she was sorry for having to bring the doctor out. My father gently dismissed the apology.
The woman left the door ajar and I peered in. I could see a bed with a heavy wood headboard, covered by old grey blankets. Propped against the pillows was a yellow face, so shrunken that it seemed not to be living at all but a mask, something out of an old tomb. The head was bent back slightly so that the nose pointed at the ceiling. The old man was struggling for breath, his lungs making a terrible rattling sound.
I had expected to feel afraid or repulsed, but I found I was looking at him with a detached kind of pity. He was dying, clearly. He appeared to be at a distance from us already, as if death had moved in and taken possession before life was extinguished.
I watched my father bend over the bed and take the old man’s hand tenderly from under the bedclothes to feel his pulse. He spoke a few soft words. ‘Easy now,’ I heard him say. His daughter stood at the end of the bed with her arms folded across her large breasts.
Daddy turned to her. ‘There’s nothing more I can do, I’m afraid. You’re doing the best that can be done.’ The woman sighed and nodded stolidly and kept thanking Daddy before we left.
As we approached the next house, two children who had been waiting on the front step came running at the sight of the doctor, cheeping like young birds: ‘It’s the babby – he’s took real bad!’
They were both girls, both dressed in very worn gingham frocks, too big for the elder girl and too skimpy for the younger.
‘Our mom’s worried it’s the diphtheria or she’d have brought him to you.’
I stepped into the house with Daddy. The room was spotlessly clean, though with very little in the way of furniture. There was the black iron range, a table and two wooden chairs.
The young mother was pacing the cold bricks with bare feet, the baby in her arms. His eyes were half open and he was breathing in quick, panting breaths.
Daddy gently opened the child’s mouth. In a voice that was low but urgent he said, ‘Kate – outside. Now.’
I watched from the doorway with the other girls, whose eyes moved enviously over my dress.
‘You were right Mrs Smith,’ Daddy told her. ‘It is diphtheria. Little Tom is very ill.
‘Oh, let me come. Please let me!’ It seemed very important that day that I see everything.
He had no time to spare for discussion. ‘Come on then, quickly.’ He was already going out of the door. ‘None of them is too far. It’ll be easier to walk.’
It was a humid day, warm and cloudy, threatening storms. We hurried along the crowded pavement of Birch Street past rows of shops, their blinds slanting out over the pavement. Everything seemed colourful, absorbing. Each shop gave off its own special smell: the warm, fleshy smell of sides of meat padded with yellowed fat, fresh bread and burnt currants, the tangy sweetness of strawberries and the bitter smells of metal and rubber from the hardware shop. Mixed with this was the ripe whiff of horse manure from the road.
I followed Daddy into another side street, hurrying to keep up with him, he striding and I trotting.
‘Here we are.’ He knocked on the door of a house. ‘You’d best stay outside, I think. Old Mr Fenton has his bed downstairs now.’
The house was run-down and filthy, the windows so thick with grime that they must have let in very little light. There were signs that the paint on the bleached window frames must once have been blue.
A woman with a large, sagging face and a wart sprouting whiskers on her left cheekbone appeared at the door. The rest of her hair was wrapped in a washed-out brown scarf. As the door swung open a waft of stale air hit us, stinking of sweat and urine. I shrank back.
‘Oh, it’s you, doctor,’ the woman said lifelessly. ‘He’s bad today.’ She talked of a turn in the night, said she was sorry for having to bring the doctor out. My father gently dismissed the apology.
The woman left the door ajar and I peered in. I could see a bed with a heavy wood headboard, covered by old grey blankets. Propped against the pillows was a yellow face, so shrunken that it seemed not to be living at all but a mask, something out of an old tomb. The head was bent back slightly so that the nose pointed at the ceiling. The old man was struggling for breath, his lungs making a terrible rattling sound.
I had expected to feel afraid or repulsed, but I found I was looking at him with a detached kind of pity. He was dying, clearly. He appeared to be at a distance from us already, as if death had moved in and taken possession before life was extinguished.
I watched my father bend over the bed and take the old man’s hand tenderly from under the bedclothes to feel his pulse. He spoke a few soft words. ‘Easy now,’ I heard him say. His daughter stood at the end of the bed with her arms folded across her large breasts.
Daddy turned to her. ‘There’s nothing more I can do, I’m afraid. You’re doing the best that can be done.’ The woman sighed and nodded stolidly and kept thanking Daddy before we left.
As we approached the next house, two children who had been waiting on the front step came running at the sight of the doctor, cheeping like young birds: ‘It’s the babby – he’s took real bad!’
They were both girls, both dressed in very worn gingham frocks, too big for the elder girl and too skimpy for the younger.
‘Our mom’s worried it’s the diphtheria or she’d have brought him to you.’
I stepped into the house with Daddy. The room was spotlessly clean, though with very little in the way of furniture. There was the black iron range, a table and two wooden chairs.
The young mother was pacing the cold bricks with bare feet, the baby in her arms. His eyes were half open and he was breathing in quick, panting breaths.
Daddy gently opened the child’s mouth. In a voice that was low but urgent he said, ‘Kate – outside. Now.’
I watched from the doorway with the other girls, whose eyes moved enviously over my dress.
‘You were right Mrs Smith,’ Daddy told her. ‘It is diphtheria. Little Tom is very ill.
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